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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451017">our blood is gold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa'>Ponderosa (ponderosa121)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Luck (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating Disorders, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Rape, Serial Killers, Sexual Violence, Violent Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:02:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's March 2012 and the Surgeon was never arrested. Martin has flown to California to operate on a patient who invites him to the Santa Anita racetrack where he meets a jockey who looks almost exactly like his own son. While luck is on Martin's side, it certainly isn't for Leon, who has no idea he's going to dinner with a serial killer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly, Martin Whitly/Leon Micheaux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>our blood is gold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Endless thank yous (and curses) to the folks who helped me get this accursed crossover written.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>March 2012</em>
</p><p>Martin stands at the long bank of windows overlooking the Santa Anita race track. The stands below are bustling, a sea of bodies with hardly an open seat to be found. The private suite, however, is empty save for himself, his client, and his client’s bodyguards.</p><p>There are times—more and more of late—when it feels like the authorities are right behind him, and then there are days like today, when he’s stepped off the jet in a new state and there’s nothing awaiting him but a cool breeze, warm sun, and stiff drinks. Martin swirls his wine and smiles to himself.</p><p>“Enjoying the view, Dr. Whitly?”</p><p>“And the weather. If my wife weren’t so attached to the house, I’d think about relocating.”</p><p>“Ah, yes. You married a Milton.”</p><p>“I did.” Martin lifts his glass in a silent toast to Jessica. “You know, the family once owned one of the most prestigious stables in Upstate New York, but Jessica, she hates horse racing. Absolutely detests it. Retired the lot, no matter the cost. Something about the cruelty of it. I had no feelings one way or another. I have fond memories of visiting Belmont with my family, but I’ve never been one for the sport, myself.”</p><p>“And yet you’re indulging me.”</p><p>“A good doctor meets his patient in their element. And I am the <em>best</em> cardio-thoracic surgeon in the country,” Martin says, tossing a wink at the man.</p><p>“What are my odds?”</p><p>Martin holds the man’s gaze. “The truth, Michael?” he asks, giving the briefest pause to measure just how raw to deliver the news. When there’s not even the slightest wavering in the old man’s eyes, Martin drains his drink and leaves it on the nearest table. “Two to one that you make it out of the operating room. Ten to one that you’ll have a meaningful quality of life to last you your remaining years.”</p><p>The man’s lips thin into a rueful smile. “Always did love a longshot,” he says wistfully, his rheumy eyes turning to the track where the horses are springing from the gate.</p><p>The old man is quiet as the horses thunder around the track. Martin isn’t sure which one belongs to him. If any of them do.</p><p>“Do you have children, Dr. Whitly?” he asks suddenly.</p><p>Martin rattles off the answer as if by rote. “Two. My son, Malcolm, is off at college, and my daughter, Ainsley, is, as always, right behind her big brother.”</p><p>“A word of advice, if you’ll permit it. Treat them kindly, even if they don’t choose to follow in your footsteps.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” Martin says. He stretches his mouth into a smile that approximates warmth and fondness atop a foundation of fatherly pride. “My children mean the absolute world to me.”</p><p>“I have money and loyal men who will do anything at my say-so, but all I have left of my legacy is down there on the track,” the man says, no visible emotion on his face as a horse with a bright blaze on its nose breaks away from the pack. “My useless son was a loser from the start, but I could’ve done better by him, even if the ungrateful wretch didn’t manage to sire a single grandchild. I don’t relish dying alone.”</p><p>The old man gestures at his attendant when it’s clear that none of the other horses are going to be able to close the gap, and Martin follows along bemused as they head down to the winner’s circle. Dying alone isn’t Martin’s concern. Dying in prison, on the other hand, is a fate he’s considered to be a distinct possibility.</p><p>As to whether or not his son will carry on his legacy, that’s yet to be seen. Malcolm has grown into such a clever, handsome young man. Not as clever as his father, perhaps, and not nearly so imposing in build—he does take after his mother in that regard—and yet, even if he’ll clearly never have the stomach for the sort of work Martin does, he’s still in possession of many of the same charms that—</p><p>Martin had hardly paid the young man atop the horse’s back any attention as it was paraded around, but as the jockey hops nimbly to the ground and comes to shake the old man’s hand, Martin’s thoughts don’t so much skid to a stop as take a very unexpected tumble into the dirt. Being so utterly taken by surprise is not something he experiences very often.</p><p>He’s still staring when the young man is talking to the reporters, and the resemblance only grows stronger when the jockey pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair. He’s grinning and animated as he talks, the blue of his eyes as bright as his silks.</p><p>“Seems you’re more interested in the boy than the horse,” the old man says.</p><p>Martin lets the implication roll off him like water. “Of course I am. The animal is a machine bred and trained for greatness, but the rider needs the skill to interpret it and bring that greatness forth. Isn’t that right?”</p><p>A wrinkled hand waves dismissively. The old man’s pale, watery eyes are shrewd in a way that seems to see straight into Martin’s well-hidden core. “Would you like to meet him, Dr. Whitly?” he asks, then after a beat, “Dine with him?”</p><p>This… this is how he gets caught, Martin thinks. Yet he can’t tear his gaze from the jockey’s too-familiar profile. “Yes. I would like that very much.”</p><p>“If I make it to the day after tomorrow, consider it part of your payment. If during our follow-up the prognosis shows that the greater odds are in my favor, I can ensure his agent won’t be distressed if the young man’s jockeying career comes to an end.”</p><p>Martin’s fairly certain the man doesn’t mean the same permanent end he, himself, is entertaining, but when it comes to powerful men who keep the sort of company the old man has kept, you never can tell. With some effort, Martin turns his attention back to his patient. “Wonderful,” he says. “I can assure you that I don’t need the additional incentive to do my very best, but if it helps put your mind at ease before the procedure, all the better. Faith is—”</p><p>“Faith is for those without hope and without power, Dr. Whitly. Save my life, and you can do whatever you desire with young Leon’s.”</p><p>*</p><p>
  <em>Two days later</em>
</p><p>Martin smiles across the table at his dinner companion. Leon looks uncomfortable in a jacket and tie, neither of which fit him particularly well. He keeps his hands mostly in his lap, only reaching occasionally for his water glass. He’s done his hair back with more gel than was popular in the 80s.</p><p>“Relax,” Martin tells him. He refills his wine glass and pours a bit more into Leon’s even though the boy hasn’t taken more than a sip. “You must have plenty of fans.”</p><p>“Surely,” Leon agrees, taking the wine glass and raising it to his lips out of courtesy, “but they just want me to sign their program. Never had a limo pick me up before.” He trails off, eyes darting around the dimly lit room before landing back at his plate. He looks everywhere but at Martin.</p><p>“First big win, is it?”</p><p>“Yessir.” Leon nods with his nose still buried in his glass. He swallows hastily, then sets it down a little too abruptly. The red sloshes and swirls, and he catches the stem with both hands to keep it from spilling. There’s a tremble in his fingers before he slips his hands back under the table, his ears turning as scarlet as the pinot. Martin smiles gently. There’d been a time when Malcolm had suffered from nerves, too—oh, how he’d shaken and shivered until Martin took the knife away from him.</p><p>“Well, if your performance the other day is any indication, you’ll want to get used to the limelight,” Martin says. He enjoys another mouthful of sinfully soft wagyu beef before leaning forward and gesturing with his fork at Leon’s mostly-untouched plate. “Eat something, would you? Come on now. Even my son puts away more food than you, and he is <em>quite</em> the picky eater.”</p><p>Leon licks his lips and takes knife and fork in hand. The tines of the fork press into the piece of steak for a moment before piercing the perfectly seared surface. Martin’s mouth begins to water even though the piece the boy cuts can hardly be called a morsel.</p><p>“That’s it,” Martin says. His tongue presses to the roof of his mouth as Leon dutifully takes the bite. If the boy wasn’t clearly struggling with an eating disorder to make his weigh-ins, would he have Malcolm’s build as well? “Even if you’re pulling in two hundred grand a year, a meal like this won’t come your way often. You should treat it like your last.”</p><p>“It’s very rich, Dr. Whitly,” Leon says, tucking away another small mouthful.</p><p>Martin’s nose wrinkles as if bringing the young man into his confidence. “So am I,” he stage whispers. He sits up straight and dabs at the corners of his mouth with the napkin, shaking it out before laying it across his lap again. “Now, I hope you’ll indulge me by eating the meal I’m paying for. If you need a bit of financial incentive or a few prescriptions to convince you it won’t be the death of you, that can be arranged.”</p><p>“That won’t be necessary, Dr. Whitly. Thank you kindly, sir, for bringing me here.”</p><p>“Call me Martin.”</p><p>“Yessir.”</p><p>Martin enjoys watching the boy consume as much as he can stomach of the steak. Rarely has he seen someone fight so strongly against both what they so clearly want to do and the inevitable consequences. And as for himself? The last time he felt such torment was so long ago now. He closes his eyes briefly, remembering that time upstate when he and John had brought that girl up with them in the back of the camping wagon. When Malcolm had gotten old enough to start causing trouble.</p><p>Separating the last piece on his plate with a single neat slice, Martin considers how close he’d been to gutting his precious son like a fish. His hand had been unsteady on a scalpel for the first time in his life as he’d come up from the basement preparing to do what needed to be done, but then Malcolm had surprised him. Martin smiles encouragingly at Leon as another bite slides down the boy’s throat. He’ll never know if he would’ve hesitated when it came down to it, will he?</p><p>During the dessert course, Leon’s brows pull together, deep furrows appearing in his smooth forehead. He gnaws on his lip as he works up to the question he’s been dwelling on since the moment he slid into the limo. “How long are you in town for, Doct—Martin?”</p><p>“I’ll be flying back to New York in the morning. Nothing too early. Plenty of time for a spot of breakfast.”</p><p>“Been missing your wife, I imagine,” he says, glancing meaningfully at Martin’s wedding ring.</p><p>“Of course. Even after all this time and two children, my wife, Jessica, is quite the passionate lover, and she’s always so <em>feisty</em> after I’ve been away for work.” Martin scoops up another spoonful of sorbet and lets it melt on his tongue before he pins Leon with a meaningful look. “Still, there’s nothing I hate so much as a cold bed.”</p><p>“Limo service, last-minute reservations at a place like this, must be somewhere nice you’re staying.”</p><p>“The man who owns the horse you rode has put me up in the penthouse suite at the Waldorf-Astoria over in Beverly Hills. It’s got a remarkable view. This city isn’t much to look at during the day, if you ask me, but at night?” Martin sucks a breath through his teeth and stretches a hand out, fingers dancing as he says, “The lights, they spread out like a sea of stars, a glittering, magical ocean... it’s breathtaking.”</p><p>Unlike the wonder in his wide eyes, Leon’s soft laugh is nothing like Malcolm’s. “The way you talk about things, I’d bet you could make just about anything sound amazing.”</p><p>“If I hadn’t turned out to be such a damn good surgeon, I might’ve considered a career on the stage.”</p><p>Leon sets his spoon down. The remainder of his cherry sorbet is puddling, spreading blood red at the bottom of the cut crystal bowl. His lips are stained with it. His tongue must be, too. His gaze when it lifts is hedged with the sort of reluctance that says he’s not accustomed to sleeping with men, though he must certainly be familiar with the attention drawn by a young man with his looks. Malcolm has certainly drawn the eye of plenty of lecherous perverts amongst the social scene. “Will you be offering me a ride home after dessert or after breakfast?”</p><p>The crystal of his own bowl chimes as Martin scrapes up the last bits of his dessert. “I’m hoping for the latter, but if you’d rather walk out of here after I pay the bill, so be it.” Martin sucks his spoon clean and tosses it into the empty dish. “No harm, no foul. We simply go our separate ways. Me, back to my loving family. You, back to… wherever the fuck you came from.”</p><p>*</p><p>Martin doesn’t have to invite the boy into his lap on the ride back to the hotel. For all the hesitation in his body language, Leon seems far more comfortable with the idea of sex than dinner. After a few blocks, he shrugs out of that ill-fitting jacket and abandons the seat to straddle Martin’s thighs. Curling his arms around Martin’s neck, he aims for a sloppy kiss and draws away when Martin doesn’t immediately return the swipe of his tongue.</p><p>“Something the matter, Dr. Whitly?”</p><p>He looks so very much like Malcolm, it’s remarkable. Even this close.</p><p>Martin knows every hair on his son’s head, and if it weren’t for, oh, a good twenty-five pounds, he and Leon could very well be twins.</p><p>Perched lightly at the edge of the seat, hovering now above Martin, Leon’s thighs are the only bit of him that seems solid. He’s frozen like a deer, pupils narrowing to points. “Did I do something wrong?”</p><p>Martin puts a reassuring hand to Leon’s cheek. “No, my boy, I’m simply admiring the view,” he says and admires him a bit longer before drawing him in for a slow, searching kiss.</p><p>A normal man might find this abhorrent. For Martin, it’s much like his work, something to dissect into smaller parts, to peel back and examine. To savor.</p><p>The boy tastes like cherries.</p><p>At the hotel, Martin keeps a hand low on Leon’s back all the way up and into the room. The minute they’re two steps inside, Leon begs to use the bathroom first and take a shower.</p><p>“If you hadn’t asked, I would’ve insisted,” Martin tells him, giving him a little pat on the ass. He reaches in to flip on the bathroom light for the boy, sizing him up again now that they’re truly alone. In the reflection of the full-length mirror beside the door, Martin towers over him. The shirt fits him as terribly as the jacket, too large in the shoulders, too wide in the arms. It makes his wrists look fragile. Breakable. “Be thorough. I’m going to want to put my mouth on every inch of you.”</p><p>Leon nods, blushing again, and grabs a robe from the closet before he disappears into the bathroom. Even with the taps on full, it doesn’t hide the sound of his desperate retching.</p><p>Lamenting the waste, Martin turns on the stereo and uses the time to lay out his tools.</p><p>It’s only after he’s staring at the tidy spread—forceps, scalpels, spreaders, saw, gloves, gown—that the hazy thrill clears enough for him to consider how very foolish it would be to kill the boy here of all places.</p><p>They’ve been seen together, and while his client is most definitely capital C <em>connected</em> there’s no guarantee that the old man would be willing to pay whatever might be necessary to properly clean up the mess. And no guarantee that he’d stay silent after the fact. Not even mobsters were fond of serial killers that weren’t for hire. The alternative, though, when the itch has already gotten under his skin, when he’s <em>primed</em>....</p><p>With a glance towards the bathroom door, Martin pulls out his phone. He licks his lip wet and dials before he can change his mind.</p><p>“Do you have any idea what time it is?”</p><p>“I know it’s late, Nicholas, but I have a favor to ask.”</p><p>“I’m growing tired of granting you favors, Martin.”</p><p>Martin bares his teeth. “I don’t give a shit. Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you let that girl get away with all your dirty laundry in tow.”</p><p>There’s quietness on the line. Martin draws in a deep breath and smooths a hand over his mouth, combing his fingers through his beard. After another heartbeat, Endicott asks, “What kind of favor is it this time?”</p><p>“I’m in Los Angeles for work, and I’m entertaining a young man for the evening in my hotel room. Things may get messy.”</p><p>“For fuck’s sake. Can’t you simply control yourself, for once?”</p><p>Martin nearly throws the phone into the wall. He controls himself every damn day. The sound of the shower cuts off and begins a silent countdown. Leon would be stepping out now, naked and dripping. “This one is special. I’m going to want to take my time.”</p><p>“I don’t care to know the details. I never have.”</p><p>“I’m merely giving you a heads up out of courtesy,” Martin says, mouthing the words ‘you fucking ass’ as he struggles to keep his tone civil. After all, if he goes down, Endicott goes down with him. “One friend to another.”</p><p>“We aren’t friends, Martin.”</p><p>“Just be ready to get this cleaned up if I need you to.” The bathroom door pulls open, and Martin stabs his thumb against the button to hang up. He slips it back into his pocket and throws his sweater over the spread of tools on the dresser.</p><p>As Leon emerges toweling his hair dry, Martin turns an easy smile on him. He’s about to ask if Leon enjoyed the shower, but the glib question withers on his tongue as his gaze travels down the boy’s slender frame. The robe hangs open, and though a pair of short trunks sit low on his hips, there’s still little to break the illusion. Martin spots no birthmarks or scars and skims his gaze down the same scatter of hair low on the boy’s belly that makes an appearance in the summer when they’re in the Hamptons.</p><p>If only the young man had a bit more muscle on him, Martin thinks. But then again, if he were to look past that, literally. Perhaps an exploratory laparotomy is on the table. Or on the bed, as it were.</p><p>“Have you slept with many men before?”</p><p>There’s a flicker on Leon’s face that reveals uncertainty, wondering perhaps whether or not Martin seeks the truth. He centers himself, modeling Martin’s posture as he shakes his head slightly, and says, “Nossir. Few times, hand and mouth stuff, ‘specially when I was younger. Just foolin’ around is all, but I’ve never, um—”</p><p>“Had a man’s cock up your ass?”</p><p>Leon licks his lips nervously. “I done it to girls before,” he says. He hangs the towel around his neck and runs his fingers through his hair to comb it away from his face. The strands stay back briefly, only to start falling loose as he ducks his head and adds, “They all seemed to like it, so can’t be all bad, right?”</p><p>“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the bed, son, and you’ll see just how good it can be.”</p><p>Martin lingers by the dresser as Leon hangs the damp towel on the knob of the closet. The way the boy crawls onto the king-sized bed and positions himself in the very center is a tawdry sort of seductive, but Martin appreciates it all the same. His hand drifts over the folds of the sweater concealing his tools, the siren song of the steel practically humming in the air.</p><p>“If I ordered up some tea, would you care for a cup?” Martin asks, eyeing the desk phone.</p><p>“Sure, I’d have some, Dr. Whitly,” Leon says. He hardly takes up any space at all in the bed, and as he props his weight on his arms behind him, the robe slips off his shoulder to puddle at his elbow. His median cubital vein stands out in sharp relief, thick with blood making its way back to his heart. “Sorry… Martin.”</p><p>Martin undoes his watch, leaving it atop his sweater before undoing his cuffs. “No need to apologize for being polite, my boy. In my experience, good manners are far more important than good breeding. I choose my closest friends that way, in fact.” They could have a lovely time before the tea arrived, but perhaps he’s being hasty. Despite a few messes that needed some extra cleanup, he’s been extremely careful since Malcolm’s stumbling upon his last spur of the moment catch had almost put an end to his career. Of course, after that business in the cabin, he’d gained an upper hand over one of the most powerful men on the Eastern Seaboard, but he ought to consider what he truly wants to get out of this boy’s body.</p><p>“You know, let’s save that tea for after,” Martin decides. He pops the button at his throat and slips out of his shoes. He’s only had sex with one of his victims, and that was early on, back when he was Leon’s age—Malcolm’s age—before he learned that sedating them was quicker than seducing them. Typically, the rush that thickens his cock happens well after the fact, when he’s at his desk transferring his notes into his journals, but he’s already aching at the thought of spreading Leon’s thighs. “It’ll be a little treat. Something nice and warm before the lights go out.”</p><p>“I like the way that sounds,” Leon says breathily. He falls back onto his elbows as Martin sets a knee to the bed, and the angle makes it clear that while he’s not quite hard, he’s definitely <em>interested.</em></p><p>“Take your shorts off, my boy,” Martin says, pinching the hem of one leg and giving it a slight tug. He tongues at the roof of his mouth as Leon’s dick fattens a little under his attention. Why bother unwrapping a present when it can unwrap itself? “Let me see that pretty cock I’m going to suck on.”</p><p>Leon drops all the way onto his back, hips lifting off the bed as he slides his shorts down. His cock bounces as he kicks the fabric away, and by the time he’s back up on one elbow, the fullness of it rests dark and heavy against the crease of his thigh. His slim fingers give it a slow tug as Martin watches, entranced.</p><p>“Beautiful,” Martin murmurs, reaching out to trail his own questing touch up along the inside of Leon’s leg. Gooseflesh rises in the wake of his fingers as they trace over the boy’s sartorius. He explores the adductor group that is far more developed than on most young men—all that time perched in the saddle—and runs the pads of his fingers up to the dip of the femoral triangle where Leon’s skin is soft and delicate. Martin inches forward, measuring when Leon’s breath changes. “May I?”</p><p>“You can do whatever you want to me,” Leon says, any nervousness overshadowed by the anticipation of a warm mouth pleasuring him.</p><p>“I intend to,” Martin purrs. He dips his head down to nuzzle his face at the smooth skin of Leon’s hip, to breathe in the scent of him, clean and fresh. “I very much intend to.”</p><p>Oh, the foolishness of youth, Martin thinks, as he scrapes his teeth over the wing of bone and lets his mouth and hands grow familiar with the boy’s flesh.</p><p>Those eyes, so very similar to his son’s—that same greyish blue as Jessica’s only lighter, with tiny threads of green passed down through his side of the family—they watch keenly at first, then go heavy-lidded as Martin swallows the boy’s cock.</p><p>Despite what Endicott thinks or Jessica suspects, his sexual appetites are fairly banal. He enjoys reducing his wife to a whimpering mess with his head between her thighs because he knows by the way the other society wives look at him that she’s bragged about it, but what he really likes is the simple act of sinking his cock into something wet and warm. Or, when he’s reminiscing, the occasional tight-fisted jerk into a tissue in his basement hobby room when his fingers are dark with graphite.</p><p>He doesn’t love having his mouth on a cock, not the way Jessica does, the slut. It’s the pure mechanics of the act that has him hard and straining in his pants. To have this boy laid out before him, his very manhood offered up, yearning and vulnerable. Oh, it’s glorious. As powerful as he can feel fucking into someone’s mouth, seeing just how far he can push until there are tears springing into their eyes, this… this is better.</p><p>If Martin could stomach the taste of blood, he could simply snap his jaws tight, rend at flesh like Dahmer—chew and swallow and sever, quite literally, a vital part of this young man’s very concept of self. Reconstructive surgery would likely cost him his livelihood with muscle and skin harvested from his leg to make up for the loss.</p><p>Leon’s hips shake under him, and Martin slips his arms up the boy’s body, spreading his hands over Leon’s chest like a cage. The catch of his breath and the speed of his pulse triggers the same response in Martin.</p><p>“Wait, please. ‘S too much. Christ,” Leon pleads, reaching out desperately, his slim, strong fingers grasping at Martin’s shoulder.</p><p>He pulls off when Leon whimpers and his whole body tries to twist. It’s almost too late, the hand on his shoulder flattening out as Leon’s eyes screw shut and he staves off orgasm.</p><p>“You could’ve let yourself come,” Martin tells him, dragging his lips and the words across Leon’s skin. His whiskers catch against the soft tangle of curls nestled at the base of Leon’s dick as he kisses his way up the shaft again to where a trickle of cloudy precome slides down the crown.</p><p>“Being fast on the track is one thing. But in bed?” Leon goes up on his elbows again to stare down at Martin. The boy chews on the corner of his lip before breaking into a wry smile. “Reflects poorly on me, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I rather thought it a testament to my skill.”</p><p>“You definitely have skill, but if I come so hard this soon? It might very well knock me right out, Dr. Whitly. Wouldn’t be much fun for you then, I’d think.”</p><p>A pleasurable shiver runs along Martin’s spine. “You’d think wrong. A boy as beautiful and special as you? If you were to simply lay there and allow me to take my time…” Martin inhales deeply and slides his arms up along Leon’s body. “I’d treasure that more than you can ever imagine.” Shifting his weight, Martin surges forward, sucking hungry kisses along Leon’s belly before he bears the boy down and takes his mouth again.</p><p>He bites at Leon’s lips, the stain of cherry ice long-faded, the sweet taste of it gone beneath the sharp mint of the suite’s courtesy toothpaste. “I wanted to open you up with my tongue, my boy, but if I’m honest with myself, I really can’t wait to get inside you.”</p><p>Martin works open his belt one-handed, muffling Leon’s attempt at a question as he pulls his dick out and presses it, hot and thick, between the boy’s legs. The hands on his arms stop gripping and start pushing, and there’s a static buzz taking over when he strokes himself, his cockhead nudging near to force its way inside. There’s enough of his DNA on Leon’s skin already, he’ll need to wash the body after, anyway. If he wants to take Leon practically dry, he can simply carve away the damaged tissue post-mortem and remove the lower intestine completely.</p><p>“Wait, fu—” Leon doesn’t have Malcolm’s upper body strength, but the vise-grip of his thighs is enough to keep Martin from easily penetrating him. “What’re you—”</p><p>“I won’t hurt you,” Martin promises, forcing Leon’s legs wider with his knees. He moves more of his weight to one side, pinning Leon’s thigh and torso and his dominant arm. “Not much, anyway.”</p><p>Blind panic flashes on Leon’s face, his skin going nearly as pale as the whites of his eyes. “Get off me, Dr. Whitly,” he pleads, pushing harder at Martin’s shoulder with his off-hand. He’s so desperate, so afraid of what could happen. His fear rises effervescent in the air between them, light as champagne bubbles. “Get off, please!”</p><p>Martin takes his hand off his dick to pry the boy’s legs open and shove his knee wide. He gasps and shakes his head, muttering “no” and “please” as Martin catches his wrist and holds it down. Oh, his dear, sweet boy is as slender as the average woman, built with the same strong, elegant bones of his mother. </p><p>The world comes back into focus briefly, and with it, the reminder that this isn’t Malcolm, at all. This isn’t <em>his</em> boy. Leon is some freak coincidence of genetics with the right face and nearly the right build, but no Whitly blood is carried in those veins. It won’t mean nearly as much to kill him—this cheap, carbon copy of his own son—when the potential for regret is absent, when the red rush of his life pouring out isn’t something invaluable and irreplaceable. And what of fucking him?</p><p>Martin rears back with a thoughtful frown. To remain unappalled by the idea of sleeping with a young man who looks like one’s progeny is a far cry from wanting to actually fuck one’s own child. Does he want that? Plenty of men leave their wives for women their daughter’s age, and oh, he’s certain gotten his rocks off between the legs of college girls with perky tits and blond highlights, but never with incestuous intent.</p><p>But the insistent throb of his cock and the way he can’t tear his gaze away from Leon’s stricken face. If Malcolm remains too fragile to take up his line of work and carry on his legacy, could it be that this is what his son was made for? A vessel for pleasure not pain?</p><p>“I’m only playing, my dear boy,” he says, fixing his face with a teasing smile. “You don’t really believe I want to hurt you, do you?”</p><p>Leon’s eyes are gleaming, wetness gathered on his lashes. He tries to blink them away. “Didn’t feel much like playing,” he says, the slightest hint of steel beneath the quaver of his voice. His cock has gone limp, his balls drawn up tight in a vain attempt for his body to protect itself. His knees keep trying to pull together.</p><p>Martin sits on his heels and briskly runs his hands along the outsides of Leon’s thighs. He rubs a bit of life back into limbs gone chill with the flight response directing Leon’s blood flow to his organs.</p><p>“Forgive me, I got a little carried with the roughhousing,” Martin says, working hard to sound as sincere as he can. “Usually, the young men I entertain enjoy that sort of thing. A bit of wrestling around to see who can get the upper hand. You’re a whole lot stronger than you look.”</p><p>The lie is a simple one, and Leon reacts predictably. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Oh, most definitely,” Martin says. He sucks his fingers wet and winks at Leon as he reaches down, and with a jagged twitch like the boy has to fight his instinct for self-preservation, his legs slowly ease apart to welcome the touch. Martin keeps Leon’s gaze as he searches blindly for the hot clench of his hole. With his other hand, he gives Leon’s flank a light slap. “I’d wager you could crush a watermelon.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t know, never tried,” Leon says. His tongue sneaks out to wet his lips, and his mouth stays sweetly parted as Martin’s fingers tease him open.</p><p>“See… there we go, that feels good, doesn’t it?” Martin wets his hand again, finger crooking to make small circles at where Leon’s body stays stubbornly tight. He keeps his other hand stroking along Leon’s leg, offering a touch of distraction as he gives him an anatomy lesson. “There are two muscles here, my boy. This one that I’m touching now is the one you can control voluntarily. Give it a squeeze, nice and tight. See? Now, do the opposite.”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“You’ve cleaned yourself out, right, son? So, you don’t need to worry about any mess.”</p><p>Leon’s abdomen tightens as he bears down experimentally, and his eyes widen as his body relaxes enough to let Martin’s finger slip inside him. “There, see, not so bad is it? Now this,” Martin says, giving his finger a little wiggle, tugging against Leon’s inner rim. “Unlike the outer sphincter, this here is smooth muscle and completely involuntary.”</p><p>“Girls I done this with had all done it before. I hadn't needed to really do nothing,” he admits. His body tightens up as he talks, and Martin shivers as he pictures the boy clamping down tight around his dick. “You sure—how's it gonna work?”</p><p>“Just relax,” Martin coos, slipping his finger in deeper. “Push if you feel yourself start to tighten up too much, it’ll tire out the muscle, and not to be crude, but your body is accustomed to that motion.” Martin feels around, pressing at Leon’s soft inner walls until he gets the reaction he’s seeking.</p><p>“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Leon says, his wrist skidding on the bedding as he deals with what is quite possibly the first time anyone has manually stimulated him like this. His cock reacts swiftly to the touch, filling out again with the urgency of youth.</p><p>“And that, my boy, is your prostate,” Martin says, keeping the touch light. “Getting a nice little tingle? A bit like I’m touching your cock from the inside, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Is this how it feels for them?” Leon’s eyes fall shut and his brow knits as he focuses on the sensation. His cheeks are flush and delicate little shivers run through his slender frame. “For girls, I mean?”</p><p>“Oh no, this one is only for the boys. Women are a bit more complicated, but this little gland,” Martin says and dares to press a little harder, “this is our little secret.”</p><p>“My god, Doctor Whitly, I don’t even know what I’m feelin’ right now.”</p><p>“The average length of an adult male’s middle digit is under four inches, enough to give you a good tickle here. Now, despite what pornography may lead you to believe, the average penile length of a white male is in the vicinity of five and half. Not to brag, but I am both a little smarter and a little longer than your average bear, <em>so</em> believe me when I say it can be even more pleasurable when it’s a cock,” Martin promises, continuing to finger fuck him until the easy slide turns into a sticky drag.</p><p>When he finally slips his hand free, he rubs at the boy’s hole as it tightens up. He orders Leon to pass him a pillow, and when the boy dutifully obeys, Martin smiles winningly as he folds it in half and wedges it under Leon’s hips. “For the angle,” he explains and holds up a hand to signal a pause. He slips off the bed to go and fetch some actual lubricant instead of simply relying on his own saliva, and the urge to grab the scalpel from beneath the folds of his sweater is overwhelming.</p><p>He lays his hand atop the spread briefly. The potential of everything those simple tools can unlock resonates beneath his palm.</p><p>“Don’t be hasty,” he whispers to himself and digs out the small bottle of personal lubricant from his travel kit. He thumbs open the lid as he sheds his pants and returns to Leon. “We’ll get that pretty hole of yours all slicked up, and then we’ll be off to the races. Who knows, maybe once I’ve popped your cherry, you’ll never want it any other way again.”</p><p>There’s embarrassment on the young man’s face at being so brazenly looked at when he has his knees up and wide. Maybe there was something to be said for keeping one’s victims unsedated after all, Martin considers, drinking in the nervousness and fear when he slicks up his cock. How trusting Leon is, Martin thinks as he eases his finger back inside the boy.</p><p>Malcolm had trusted him like this once, a few murmured reassurances was all it took to get him to nod and follow along with lessons, to get past his squeamishness and learn to gut a fish or skin a deer. Then, later, once he’d begun asking the wrong sorts of questions, a bit chloroform shored up that trust again.</p><p>Unfortunately, Martin never could rewind things entirely. Time stole the unshakable faith that made him a God-figure in his child’s eyes. Just as time proved that Malcolm wasn’t quite fit for studying the science of the body. Far more interested in unlocking the secrets of the mind, his boy.</p><p>“How are we doing?” Martin asks. His finger moves easily now inside Leon, and the way his belly tenses up in waves reveals how much he’s learning to enjoy it. “Is it good?”</p><p>Leon approximates a nod. His hard cock leaks against his belly.</p><p>“Speak up, boy. Use your words.”</p><p>“It’s good. Still feels a little weird, but I’m getting used to it.”</p><p>“And who is it that’s making you feel good right now, Leon?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Martin bites back the flash of irritation. They might share the same face, but this boy wasn’t nearly so sharp as his own. “Tell me who’s making you feel good right now.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s you, Doct—I mean, you are, Martin.”</p><p>The correct answer doesn’t make up for fumbling it in the first place, and the stretch of the young man’s throat as his head tips back in yearning isn’t a balm. He’s not thinking about how it’s Martin’s finger crooked deep inside him that’s making him feel this way, no, he’s focused solely on the feeling itself. The static creeps back into Martin’s vision, but he keeps the thorny disappointment out of his voice as he settles his weight back atop Leon’s slim frame and tells him to breathe, and to not worry, he’ll go as slow as necessary.</p><p>He rubs the wet head of his cock against the boy’s twitching hole. A push of his hips and he sinks in, easy for that first sweet inch until Leon’s body meets where his cock isn’t quite so soft and forgiving.</p><p>“A little squeeze and hold, my boy. Now bear down,” Martin instructs him. He groans as Leon does as told, muscle clamping tight around him before easing up, just enough for him to push in a little farther.</p><p>He goes too fast, and Leon makes a soft yelp. He puts his hands to Martin’s chest again as if he’s preparing to push him off, and his body recoils from the sudden ache he must be feeling. Tears springing back into his eyes, he readies his mouth to beg for something. For Martin to slow down, or be more gentle, or to stop.</p><p>Martin is sick of coddling him. Virgin hole or not, if the boy had only listened and trusted him, he’d be loose and already loving it. He’d be begging for the hard snap of Martin’s hips instead of struggling with a plaintive whine pouring out of his throat.</p><p>“I told you what to do,” Martin says between his teeth. He bars an arm across Leon’s chest as he buries himself deeper in the boy’s body. Clucking his tongue, he claps a hand over Leon’s mouth to stifle the next anguished cry, his elbow pressing near the hinge of Leon’s jaw to keep the boy from opening his mouth to bite. Scratches were easy to explain away, bite marks less so. He fucks into him with a few shallow thrusts and hisses, “You stupid boy, you didn’t listen. All you had to do was lay there and relax.”</p><p>Leon’s nostrils flare as he sucks in increasingly desperate breaths, the tears leaking freely down to his temples now. He can’t stop moving, trying to twist away to free himself from the hurt, the excruciating tear of delicate tissues and the dull throb of muscle forced to stretch.</p><p>“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Martin says. A wave of pleasure courses through him, and he carefully moves his hand off Leon’s mouth to cup the boy’s face. “Okay, maybe I wanted to hurt you a little, but you have no idea what you look like.”</p><p>Leon swallows hard before a thrust makes him choke on his next breath. He gulps for air and shoves uselessly at Martin’s chest. “Please, Martin. Please, don’t do this.”</p><p>“You know, he said that, too, my son did. I listened to him, but I don’t think he even remembers.” Gently, Martin wipes the trickle of tears away from Leon’s cheek and smiles down at him. “You look so much like him. Same big, beautiful eyes. Same mouth.”</p><p>He takes a fistful of Leon’s hair as he leans down to kiss him again, a crush of lips only because he isn’t so foolish as to lick along the boy’s teeth. He drags his tongue up the side of Leon’s face instead and gathers up the salt taste of tears. Maybe after, when he’s opened up, wet and red, then he’ll take a kiss. Playing with them after they were dead was always more John’s thing, but it couldn’t hurt, just this once.</p><p>“I’m not saying that I have ever had sexual relations with my own son,” Martin clarifies because it’s important that Leon knows this is new for him. “I would have never hurt my boy like that. He grew to object to my hobbies, though. I was going to rid us both of a problem, and he <em>begged</em> me not to. A shame, really, since he was always such an adept pupil. But, that’s when I realized, sometimes you need to let your children go off and make their own mistakes.”</p><p>“Please,” Leon tries again, but the fight is going out of him, his body accepting the reality that the assault on it isn’t going to vanish.</p><p>“The hurt you’re feeling,” Martin says, forcing Leon to recognize it again and not disappear into his own mind, “is what we call nociceptive pain. And to be precise, you’re experiencing what’s known as visceral somatic pain: the burning at your anus, where you’re likely bleeding, is superficial pain. The ache that’s making your jaw clench and which feels like it’s settled into your very bones, that’s deep somatic pain, and it derives from those muscle fibers we talked about earlier.”</p><p>Martin rocks into him as he explains how pain travels along the nervous system, and how both pain and pleasure originate from the same set of neurons. He closes his eyes briefly to focus on the sensations flooding his own nerves, the increasing thrill of plunging into the clinging heat of Leon’s body, the prickle of sweat gathering wherever his skin presses to Leon’s, and the hot gusts of breath tickling his hair as he lips kisses at the boy’s ear.</p><p>“Your body is a wonderful thing,” he says, nuzzling his face against the stretch of Leon’s neck. “Absolutely wonderful, my boy.”</p><p>Unable to do anything but take it, Leon squeezes his eyes tight. His arms are tucked to his sides, hands balled to fists, his knuckles turned to ivory. Martin drops a kiss to the rise of his cheek and another on his glistening lashes as he settles into a satisfying rhythm. Eventually, trusting that Leon has submitted to his fate, Martin rises up and hooks his arms around Leon’s knees to watch his cock disappear over and over again into the boy’s body. He’s only bleeding a smidge, not enough to do more than turn the lube frothing at the tight clench of his hole a bright pink. If Martin were to let him go, it’d only be a week or so before he could sit without being reminded—physically, anyway—of being fucked like this.</p><p>Martin draws back, enough to feel the boy’s rim tugging at the head of his cock. If Leon hadn’t given up writhing, Martin’s cock might very well just pop free, but he simply lays there, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. He presses a palm to Leon’s breastbone, fingers fanning out to nearly span the width of the young man’s body, and fucks back into him hard. The chain reaction of hurt ripples up along Leon’s abdomen and to his face, easy to read by the change in his breath, a leap in his pulse, the quiver of muscle, and a split second after, the bite of his teeth on his lip to try and distract from the screaming of raw nerves.</p><p>He fucks harder, setting a punishing pace. It’s heaven for him, hell for the boy. Martin’s hand skids up to curl over Leon’s shoulder and offer a bit more leverage as he pleasures himself in the boy’s body, reveling in that endless wet, stroking, tight around his cock and the faint whimpering sound. If he lived, Leon would never forget this night. He’d be changed by it, permanently.</p><p>Dizzied, Martin’s head spins, delirious with the same rush he gets in the operating room. This is a transformative moment. Leon wouldn’t walk away from this praising Martin and thanking him for saving his life, thinking of him here and there as he resumed life as normal; no, there would be no normal after this.</p><p>Martin had never given much thought to rapists beyond how base and crude their pathology seemed, how primitive, but he hadn’t set out to rape this young man. And is this even rape? Surely if he traces it back to their lovely dinner and the fun they’d had in the car, the circumstances now are a consequence of Leon’s own failure to do as asked. By all rights, he’s simply teaching Leon a very different sort of lesson. He’s transforming this boy into something new.</p><p>“I created you,” Martin murmurs, awed by his own power as he looks down at the boy who resembles his son.</p><p>Fresh tears run down the trails streaked on Leon’s face.</p><p>Martin smiles beatifically.</p><p>Would Leon hesitate to change in the locker room? Shiver at the sight of men who, in any way, resembled Martin? Would he worry that, at any moment, Martin might fly to California and request his company again. He’d never be able to say no, not when the sorts of men who owned racehorses were, by and large, in the circle where Martin holds a great deal of social capital.</p><p>Closing his eyes and daydreaming of all the ways in which Leon has unwittingly been tied to him, Martin settles atop the boy’s limp body and slows his pace, relishing each slow stroke as the promise of orgasm builds and builds. He sinks in, over and over, into the cradling warmth of Leon’s body until the crescendo hits, the shivering peak of this symphony he’s conducted.</p><p>He fucks in as deep as he can and goes rigid, each wave of pleasure spitting deep into the boy’s guts with the urgency of a nicked artery until he’s left with only a feeble twitching, the last drops wrung out of him by a sudden fit of struggling. Leon curses and tries once more to push him away, to take advantage perhaps of the blissful distraction of orgasm to try and get free, but when Martin puts his mouth to Leon’s ear and tells him to hush or he’ll cut his tongue out, the boy goes still again.</p><p>Eventually, Martin rolls away, smiling and sated, noticing anew the cool push of air from the vents on his sweat-damp skin.</p><p>Leon remains frozen beside him for a good ten seconds, his split lip quivering. Then he bursts into motion like a horse out the gate, trying to scramble off the bed, but when Martin catches his wrist, he freezes. His limbs shake, body trying to curl in on itself even now, to shrink down and make himself a smaller target.</p><p>“If you tell anyone what happened tonight, I <em>will</em> find out, and I <em>will</em> kill you,” Martin promises. “And if you don’t believe me, you can take a peek under my sweater over there.”</p><p>Leon swallows hard. He doesn’t even glance towards the dresser, doesn’t dare to pull his gaze from Martin’s. “I believe you, sir,” he says, choking out each word. His arm twitches with the effort to keep from retracting it. “I won’t tell a soul.”</p><p>“Good,” Martin says brightly and gives the boy one last lingering look, head to toe. He paints a picture in his mind, every detail fixing in his memory well enough that he’ll be able to render it later on the page. “Now, off you pop, son. Best of luck on your next race. I’ll be following your career very closely.”</p><p>Leon flees, tripping over his own legs as he gathers up his clothes. He hauls on his pants before stumbling into the hall, the rest of his ill-fitting suit bundled in his arms. The door closes slowly, and Martin catches a glimpse of him barefoot and shivering in the hall, wondering perhaps what he ought to do.</p><p>Picking up the receiver, Martin calls down to the desk and gives them instructions to call the boy a taxi and bill it to his room. He tells them the young man was perhaps under the influence of something and left his shoes behind, and that he’d leave them in the hall outside his door. The concierge is unruffled by Martin’s claims. In a place like this, Leon wouldn’t be the first rentboy to leave a room tear-streaked and panicked, he imagines.</p><p>He hangs up the desk phone and grabs his cell to make another call as he grabs Leon’s shoes. As expected, the hallway is empty, and he leaves the pair for the hotel staff to take care of as he waits for the call to connect.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“My boy! I know it’s late, but I’m out in California for a job and I was just thinking of you. I miss you, son.”</p><p>“Dad? What time is it?”</p><p>Martin picks up his watch and does the math. He moves the phone to his other ear as he begins to pack up his instruments. “For you? Somewhere about half-past three o’clock. I thought you’d be awake.”</p><p>“At three in the morning? I have exams.”</p><p>“On a Saturday? Don’t lie to your father.”</p><p>“On Monday. </p><p>“Still, on a Friday night, you should be out late having a good time. College is a time for learning, of course, but it’s also a time for exploration and experimentation,” Martin says, holding his favorite scalpel up to the light. He’d in fact been using this very same one since he was Malcolm’s age. “I know boarding school was difficult for you—and that was your mother’s idea, remember—but now that you’re out in the world, you should be <em>living.”</em></p><p>“I’m not exactly a hermit,” Malcolm says. He sounds a little more awake now, and there’s a faint rustle as if he’s sitting up in bed. “I know how to have fun.”</p><p>Martin highly doubts that. Malcolm has always been a shy boy, enough fight in him when it came down to it, but never much of a spark on his own. More of a follower, his son, than one to forge his own path. But, Martin considers again, perhaps Malcolm was never meant to stand by his side, at all. Perhaps he’d always been destined to be beneath him, stripped to his skin, a body born of his own flesh for him to enjoy.</p><p>“Well, I’m home again soon, and if I’m not mistaken, Spring Break is right around the corner. If you don’t have plans, maybe we can have a little boys’ getaway. Just the two of us. A little jaunt to Bermuda, perhaps? Or maybe a week in the woods, for old times’ sake.”</p><p>“That could be fun….”</p><p>“Oh, I promise you it will be, my boy. Now, I’m sorry to have woken you, but it was so <em>good</em> to hear your voice, Malcolm. All my love to you. And good luck with that exam, although I’m sure you don’t need it!”</p><p>“Thanks, Dad.”</p><p>What was the advice the old man had given him the day before he went under the knife? Martin tucks the scalpel away and goes to the window, dimming the lamp in order to stare not at his own reflection but out at the lights of the city. Was it ‘love your children, even if they don’t choose to follow in your footsteps’ or something like that?</p><p>He’d proven to himself just how much he loved his son when he chose Malcolm over John Watkins, but there is so much more love he can give. His boy refused to take the bait whenever he hinted they might do their anatomy experiments on something more complex than rabbits and deer, but he’d still chosen to major in Behavioral Sciences. Surely, he knows, on some level that those memories he has of the girl in the box are real. Or that the nightmares that he’s laughed off featuring his hunting knife are rooted in truth.</p><p>He’s hungry for those missing pieces of himself, and Martin can give them back to him. He can appeal to that curious mind of Malcolm’s during a little alone time in the woods or in a beachfront bungalow. He can engage his son on a whole new level, get to really know who he’s become since he left for college. If Malcolm’s not out now, on a Friday night, getting laid like any red-blooded young man ought to be, certainly it’s Martin’s duty as his father to ensure he has a proper bit of fun on Spring Break.</p><p>Martin folds his hands behind him. The glitter of Los Angeles’ sprawling cityscape spreads out for miles, broken by long streaks of red brake lights like arteries. He thinks of those glorious thoroughbreds he’d watched give it their all on the track. Bred and trained for greatness each of them, but they’re nothing without someone to take the reins and guide them.</p><p>It’s time he picked those reins back up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Read more of my <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&amp;commit=Sort+and+Filter&amp;work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Prodigal+Son+%28TV+2019%29&amp;user_id=ponderosa121">Prodigal Son fics</a>, or talk to me about this twink getting wrecked on Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/ponderosa121">@ponderosa121</a> or on Discord in <a href="https://discord.gg/fQaRgBD">Prodigal Son Trash</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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